She closed the book, her hand resting on the cover embossed with a strange symbol. Her fingers trembled for a moment. Hermother’s eyes misted, but then she smiled and kissed Alora’s forehead.
“What does brave mean?”Alora asked.
“Oh, my sweet flower child.” Her mother plucked a pink primrose from one of the pots and tucked it behind Alora’s ear.“To be brave means doing the right thing, even when you’re scared…”
Alora woke with her cheek pressed against an open book. She had arrived in the library before dawn. Now it was bright, every window uncovered, streaming in full sunlight.
No shadows lingered here.
Yawning, she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. It had been some time since she last dreamt of her mother. Maybe because she needed every encouragement she could to face the outcome of today.
Tonight, there would be a new moon.
And the rise of Argyle’s rebellion against Calveron.
Her chest tightened with anxiety, and she frowned at the scab on her finger. Still pink and healing where she had pricked it. There were always consequences to every choice, but Alora had to assume this one would be worth it.
For she had carefully laid out every facet of her plan.
The open book before her was ancient, its yellowed pages marked with curling script she had labored to decipher. What drew her most were the drawings of the Seven Gates, each one belonging to a different god. It had taken her days to put together a plan.
The question was, would it work?
Her mother’s journal lay beside the tome, open to another passage half-consumed by frantic letters and tangled ink. The words she could make out left her clammy.
A formless shadow awaits…
…the needle must drink …
She cannot breathe…
… blood blooms sing…
He watches…
… in the moon’s red eye…
He is coming…
A shudder passed through Alora’s chest. What horror had twisted her mother’s mind so far? Alora’s gaze clung to those last words, so deeply etched they had torn through the parchment:
He is coming.
A cold draft brushed her shoulders.
The door to the library thudded open, making Alora jump. She slipped the journal into her satchel and looked up as her father entered. At his side strode a woman in flowing robes of deep garnet, the hems stitched with golden sunbursts that caught the firelight. Her hair was a blaze of copper, curling past her shoulders, and her eyes burned like molten amber.
She stood with quiet assurance, one hand curled around the leather reins of the great griffin beside her. Its feathers were layered in soft browns and weathered grays, the gentle flutter of wings settling. The creature clicked its sharp beak once, its low screech carrying in the vaulted library.
“Alora,” Laurent began, “This is Lady Solara, a sorceress from the Magos Empire, and Grand Magus of the Sun Guild. She has agreed to lend her magic on behalf of Argyle.”
The sorceress inclined her head with quiet poise.
“Thank you for delaying your journey to help us,” Alora said, bowing in turn. “We are deeply grateful.”
When she had first told her father of her plan, Laurent’s anger had been swift, and he’d dismissed it as stupidity. But the moment she revealed Rune’s weakness, his expression shifted. That was when he mentioned a sorceress who had visited Argyle in the winter. Fortune, it seemed, had kept her here.
Perhaps at last, the Seven were deigned to grant their blessing. For Lady Solara was the last piece upon Alora’s game board.
